


Nightmares

by MaryEllen



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:12:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2685587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryEllen/pseuds/MaryEllen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How did you find me?”<br/>Haytham grinned.<br/>“I always find you father.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares

Hope you like it,

greetings and cookies

______

 

Haytham found his father lying on the edge of the cliff. Well, not the real edge...but the muscular body of his father lay next to a bush, some feet away from the actual edge of the cliff. The waves were mumbling and some seagulls sang. The little boy approached carefully near to the grown man. 

His father slept. The black hair, a little bit grey by now, covered a part of his face. Slowly Haytham came around to stand right in front of his father. He crooked his head and had to smile, although he didn't know why exactly.  
Suddenly he could hear a change in his father's breathing and immediately held his own.  
The brown eyes of the older one blinked slowly and then a deep sigh, reminding the child of thunder, left the awakening man's throat. He blinked again and then detected the small body of his son, who stood there the eyes wide and expecting. The lips of the older curled slowly.  
“How did you find me?”  
Haytham grinned.  
“I always find you father.”  
The dark eyes of his father gleamed and he sat up. The son watched every move of the older one.  
“Want to sit next to me?”  
Haytham loved the calm voice of his father. It reminded him of the wind on hot summer days, like music in your ear. He sat down, right next to the grown man and felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.  
Both looked down the cliff into the glittering sea.

“How long have you been looking for me?”  
Haytham shrugged.  
“Three days?,” the child said and watched his father, who sighed again deeply.  
“Your poor mother.”  
The son put his head on the arm of his father.  
“Why do you run away, father? You know mother hates it.”  
A dry chuckle.  
“Well,” the older one said and kissed the dark hair of his son. “It's not as bad as long as you find me.”  
“We-,” Haytham said, but before he could go on, his father's strong arms embraced him and they both fell again on the dark earth.  
“Let us sleep, Haytham. I am tired. You not?”

Although he wasn't, the boy nodded. The grown man gaped quiet and seconds after, the son listened to the constant breathing of his father, listened to the constant mumbling of the waves and the whispering of the wind. He liked this place. He felt safe here. In these moments he had the feeling as if his father was a complete different man. Not distant but lovely and warm. That was the reason why he never pushed his father to come back home immediately. He wanted to exploit these little moments he had with this man.

The sun dawned. They would come home in the dark, Haytham realised. Mother wouldn't like it. He had to think about the first time, he had to look for his father. That was three years ago. He has been seven and his father hadn't come back for days, so mother took him and his sister and went everywhere a normal person would probably flee to: a tavern, neighbours, the forest. And then he remembered a place his father had once talked about and in the early morning, he had left home and had looked for this place, and his father had been lying there in the same position as now.

But never he had explained Haytham why. Why he sometimes did not come home and made his mother worrying sick. The boy often thought about what would happen if he had not found his father, years ago. And even now, when it had become a strange agreement between him and father, every time his mother stood in the door, waiting, the eyes wide and tired, he feared for him. He feared he would not find him. He feared his father has left forever.  
The child turned around to see the older one's face. There were some little scars on the forehead, as down on the neck. He had not seen them before.  
The boy breathed once heavy and soon the grown man narrowed, then opened his brown eyes.  
“We go?,” the older one asked calmly.  
Haytham nodded.  
A deep sigh.

Slowly they stood up. The child was glad it was early autumn, so it wasn't very cold. The stars had finally come out, blinking while the moon lit the sky. The big, dark hand took the small one and together they walked through the woods, accompanied by the loud chirping of crickets.  
His father's moving reminded the boy always of a wolf, when they sneaked through the bushes, silent, as if they were hunting.  
And then out of nowhere, the son stood still and asked into the darkness.  
“Why do run away father?”  
The child felt the cold when the man released his hand.  
There was a strange silence. It seemed as if even the forest held its breath.   
Then the light eyes of the young child saw the man turn around, the brown eyes of the older staring right into his.  
“We have to go.”  
He had not expected this distant answer. He felt betrayed.  
“I don't go until you explain why you always run away!,” the boy almost screamed.  
There was again a sigh, but not deep, not annoyed, maybe even a little bit amused.  
“You've got the stolidity of your father. He was right with that.”  
Haytham was startled. “What do you mean?,” he asked.

“I talk of my father. He always complained I was a stubborn man. And here I am, in front of my child and have the same problem.”  
Haytham blinked again. Never in his whole life his father had ever talked about his past, never. And it seemed as if the older one did not want to expand this moment.  
“Come on. Your mother can't sleep if we don't go on.”  
“She couldn't sleep the last few days because of you.”  
“There you are right but-”  
“Where is your father?”  
The moon lit their place and he could see the face of the man in his white shirt, the black hair tied back and the bare feet.   
His face was blank.   
No one spoke for a while.  
“He was a broken man, my father.”  
“And where is he?,” the son asked.  
His father's voice became low.  
“He's gone because I made a great mistake.”  
“What mistake?”  
“You are like him in fact. He was always asking. But we don't have time-”  
“We have time!”  
Both son and father stared at each other.  
And then the grown man surrendered.  
“I can't sleep and that's the reason why I run away.”  
There was a short pause.  
“Why can't you sleep?”  
“Because I have nightmares.”  
The boy's eyes became wide.  
The father smiled brightly.  
“Yes, even adults have nightmares.”

 

The night went on and after a while Haytham almost fell because he was so tired. So the older one carried his son on his back while the soft voice of the boy whispered questions over questions.  
“What do you dream of?”  
“Why do you go to this place?”  
Somehow the grown man answered every question with his calm voice, while the moon and the stars were fading, turning everything into a light blue.  
And then there was this last question and the father stood still, just like his son hours ago.  
“What was the name of your father?”

There were not far away from the village, he could yet hear some woodcutters. But he stood still, the small body of his son, warm on his back. The sun rose. And he remembered the voice of his father asking him what kind of green light that has been, when they were on their way to Church back in the Carribean. He remembered the blue cloak with the golden eagle, the hat, the angry face his father had had when they had jumped into the water. He remembered everything, every little detail.  
“Father?,” the boy asked. Birds were flying. The man looked to his son and then lift him down on the ground. He lay his hands on the small-boned shoulders.  
Brown looked into blue.  
A small smile curled on the lips of the man.  
“My father's name was yours.”  
A short silence.  
“Haytham Kenway.”

Haytham grinned.  
“Do you run away again?,” the young boy asked.

Connor shook his head and placed his right hand on the soft dark hair of his son.  
He did not answer.


End file.
